


light from sleep

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [23]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Hand Jobs, Human Furniture, Reluctance to Fuck, Rimming, Rotunda (Dragon Age), Semi-Public Sex, Skyhold (Dragon Age), Sleep Deprivation, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22058518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: Why? Why him? He had wondered it a thousand times; he had wondered it when she’d first placed her hand on his cheek, turning his head to hers in the Fade; he’d wondered,“I?”And it had almost been pathetic, the surprise of it. But then she’d made it all inevitable, hadn’t she.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	light from sleep

**“Lightly, lightly from my sleep / She stole, our vows of dew to break / Upon a day of melting rain / Another love to take: (Song, Steven Spender)**

\--

When Solas woke from sleep with a wide smear of ink drying on his cheek, Pangara took the cloth and dabbed the pinched cotton to her tongue.

She did it slowly. And she twisted the cloth so that her mouth puckered, and the groggy look he gave her could not carry enough of the weight of warning in it to make her stop.

There were many voices chattering in the rotunda above them.

She was clearly wild with something. Drink or leaf or just the pent-up frustration of too many days spent on the throne in the other room, he could not say. His dreams had been hazy ones; full of terror, full of longings. He felt addled. He needed more sleep. But he must complete this research. He wanted to amuse her, wanted to work her until she was a sweaty heap under his hand, sated and stinging and full of him.

But he was tired.

Solas moderated his desire. Judged her mood. Pangara stroked his chin and pressed her breasts up and out with her elbows as she bent to clean the ink from his face. He had lived too long to be embarrassed by falling asleep on his quill. Yet her harlot’s tricks - the little ways she enjoyed drawing his lust and commanding his gaze — at least here, where his weakness for her would certainly be noted by the spying eyes above: this agitated him. He had his dignity. Not, it seemed, when it came to her, but he needed an illusion of it nonetheless.

Because he adored her, his smile was too gentle. He said, “That is enough, vhenan,” and stroked her wrist, laying a kiss on her pulse.

It only incensed her.

She knew exactly what he dismissed.

He’d underestimated her.

She straddled him slowly. Deliberately. Her eyes were almost bored, her expression unflappable, her mouth open and red in a way that made him see cherries, strawberries, apples and wine. She leaned forward so that her heat angled down on his lap, and what had roused her while he slept? He felt a spray of shameful jealousy, quelled it. She was a woman. She was a woman of appetite and she’d chosen him, and she chose him now again and again.

Why? Why him? He had wondered it a thousand times; he had wondered it when she’d first placed her hand on his cheek, turning his head to hers in the Fade; he’d wondered, _“I?”_ And it had almost been pathetic, the surprise of it. But then she’d made it all inevitable, hadn’t she. And now she rubbed her heat on his lap and the voices went a little quieter above them and he growled at her, his tone something he tried to control; he failed. “That is enough,” he said, in a way that only served to make her sneer, aggression for aggression: an even exchange.

Yet evenness was not her aim. And he needed her to stop doing this to him, to stop being this for him here, under so many eyes. And so he did as she aimed. He lunged out and snatched the hand that held the cloth. He twisted her arm behind her back. Her eyes locked to his. He looked behind her, beyond her. Checked the height, and then shoved his other hand against her chest. Her balance was not good and he judged aright. She fell from his lap and her head cleared the edge of the desk and she fell under, and he was bent in his chair, holding her under the thick slab of wood, holding her immobile in the darkness.

She looked up at him with respect, now, at least, glowing inside her victory and humor.

“Enough,” he said, firmly, and when she said nothing he hitched her arm up higher behind her back.

She nodded, grinned, and her eyes gleamed as they caught the light of veilfire in the dark.

He released her and sat back, making his breathing even. How she could pull this from him even now, exhausted after three… no, four days of intent study, no sleep — and of course he had so little need for food — unraveling ancient magicks. How could she do this. It alarmed him. He hungered for her, for what roiled between them; it was unwise to be this way in public. Why she goaded him, he could not say. Solas glanced up at the balconies of the rotunda. A cowled head pulled back over the banister. He breathed out, slowly.

When he had collected himself enough to face her once more, he pulled his chair forward, blocking her in.

“Chanter’s Bend,” he said. And he heard her shift beneath the desk, and when he raised his feet she sidled beneath them, and supported him as a footrest.

“If you are so intent on being near,” he murmured, “then near is where you will stay.”

He should have expected the hand on the inside of his leg.

He had kept her under the desk for hours. He thought that she might have slept; which would have been good for her, too often she worked herself without proper sleep. The Chanter’s Bend was a meditative pose, knees tucked and arms outstretched, head relaxed on the floor. His feet could rest gently at the base of her spine while the natural strength of her body supported him, and she was free to drift into dreams. He was also pleased by how alert her presence made him. Just knowing that she was in his care beneath the desk was invigorating. He must stay awake to be mindful of her, to listen for her calling, or to tend to her if it sounded as if she suffered. He had been able to scratch a number of breakthroughs into the vellum while she lay at his feet.

And now he paused in his work and looked down, and saw her hand just above his knee.

“Yes?” He asked, soft, still mindful of the many people who shuffled and laughed and turned pages above them.

“May I sit up, Papae?”

“You may.” He dipped his quill and bent his knees, raising his feet for her to move out from under him. He shifted forward in his chair and leaned thoughtfully over this most recent equation, which might be able to finally explain the veering of the Veil around the eyesockets of the skulls, which appeared to project, through a lingering Necromancy casting, no doubt, a tonic hum which —

Her head rested on his knee.

He looked down, gently curious, and met her eyes. His heart betrayed him with soft patterings of tenderness. Her eyes were the kind of green he did not want to tell her reminded him of long-dead forests. Of certain stars which fled into day with emerald light. It was unkind to write poems to her eyes. It was another of his guilts, that he could not help but whisper these poems to her in dark, even though it would be kinder to always be cruel — even as she wriggled, even as she laughed, even as she covered his mouth with her own to make him stop.

“May I tend your feet Papae?” She asked.

He hesitated. His eyes flicked up.

Yet, none could see her, surely.

“Yes, vhenan. You may.” She slid first his left wrapping from his calf, and then his right, and the contented sigh he heard as she bent to her task filled him with comfort. This feeling was like a warm fire at the end of a long day. He couldn’t help the way his eyes closed as she massaged his calves, rolled his ankles and pressed the points of his feet. For their kind who walked the ways, this had always been a gentle gift. And from her, he treasured it.

And so he was vulnerable to the way she worked up his legs, first one, and then the other.

And he was still pretending to himself that he was focused on his work when she grasped at either side of his breeches and whispered, “Solas?”

And he could not say it, he _could not_ — and so because he was weak, and because when he glanced up, desperately, reminding himself he was too old to feel any shame about this sort of thing, and he saw no one looking down at him - he only nodded, fervently, wordlessly. Quick, before any sense could stop him.

And she took him out of his breeches and he righted the tome on his desk, scooting forward in his chair, burying his head in the book as he brought it to rest on his chest.

And she made a row of plush kisses up one side of his cock, and then up the other. And he felt every touch as vibrantly as if it were the first. And this was when he grunted, and she paused for a minute and he swore he heard her make a snerking cough, but it was her tongue next that rippled warm over him, and she’d pulled his breeches down lower, and his chair was far enough under the desk that he could lean back, the tome in hand, and be… hopefully mostly? Entirely? Concealed.

He was not expecting her to…

Well.

He moaned, which was likely a surprise for both of them.

 _“Vhenan,”_ he hissed, and she made a noise that said, “That wasn’t me, that was you,” which was infuriating but also so _good_ because then she did it again.

And she spread him, to do this, which — while, no, it wasn’t as if he had never before — but for _her_ to, and… and he was unbathed, and she…

She pushed against, and then into, him with a wanting, hearty groan that made him smash the back of his wrist against his mouth, simultaneously scandalized and rod-hard, moist beads dripping from the tip of his trembling cock. His testes rode on her forehead. This was not what he had thought she intended, not something that he had ever asked for or thought to mention to her.

And so, that she knew… that she _knew_ …

He tried, desperately, to deny the feeling of arousal which slammed through him — not necessarily from the sensation of her licking and tonguing against him — which was, on its own, perfectly acceptable — but from the intimacy of her wanting this from him, and the filth of it, and the beauty of her so intent and enthusiastic on her desire. The pleasure of this rocked through him. And then she stroked his cock with her hand, and he felt a sloshing heat in his gut, and he was leaning back embarrassingly far in his chair to be even more in her mercy, and the back of his head pressed into the upholstery, and his knees strained against the fabric pooled around them.

And still he held the book propped on his chest. And his hips and lower abdomen were firmly hidden under the desk, so that he could only swallow and look quickly to the tome when he saw someone on the second balcony glance down. He would not groan as she gripped him with a firm, squelching stroke (she must have spat in her hand — or… or could it be her wetness, cupped up from between her thighs…? He made a muffled, choked sound, and hid it in a cough).

She did not stop pressing, her tongue warm and rough within him. Her hand did not have to work long before he was breathing short and harsh and at the edge, his face and ears red and burning from carefully maintained silence. She was not silent, though. She could not be quieted. She whined in the back of her throat, and moaned, and grunted soft and appreciative under the desk; and it could not be enough, it could never be enough, this cresting phenomenon she orchestrated within him. And on the first level of the rotunda there was now a peculiar quiet that galled him, and part of him wanted to grab down at her — one touch, one _word_ from him and she would stop, he knew. After she had brought him to this, she would give it entirely over to him to make her cease, to protect his dignity.

And that he did not stop her was entirely her triumph. That he let her, with a series, finally, of grunts he could not withhold, bring him to completion there in the busy rotunda, with the smoke and scent of many candles burning and people chattering and moving above them. He muffled his groaning into his arm. His erection throbbed as his rectum tightened. He came onto the fabric of his sweater over her fingers, watching this avidly; he could not lift a glance up to see if any saw. He watched himself, instead, spill over her hand under the desk, helplessly absorbed. Debauched fascination. The book was clutched flat to his chest. And when she pulled her face away from him and gave him a smile in the dark that was pure joy and self-satisfied contentment, he was too weak in the knees and, suddenly, too tired to reprimand her.

He only shook his head, and gingerly pulled his breeches up and made himself presentable. He set the book on top of his notes. He pushed back from the desk and stood, and took her beaded hand in his. He found the ink-stained cloth and wiped her fingers, her palm. He helped her stand from under the desk. He guided her across the quiet tower and out through the door to the great hall. And after four days, she distracted him from his studies at last. He accompanied her to her quarters, and he said, stumbling on the first stair, “You could have asked.” 

And she said, “I did ask. Yesterday, and the day before, and even this morning, and I know you don’t remember.” And he could no longer deny his exhaustion, and she was insufferable in her delight.


End file.
